


seven wishes, off the top of my head (and a little more than i bargained for)

by sorrycas



Category: crayon otp, shelbyana
Genre: NB/NB, Other, americana crayola, bejeweled - Freeform, crayon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrycas/pseuds/sorrycas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shelby and Nate probably fuck. But before that, some shit goes down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seven wishes, off the top of my head (and a little more than i bargained for)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really sorry I think I got permission for everything tbc tbh
> 
> why on earth did I make it seven wishes
> 
> there will be more parts and things yes stay tuned

-

Shelby leans against their propped up hand, staring at the clock instead of their math teacher. They have the perfect balance of vacancy and vague attention, enough so that the teacher wouldn't trust them enough to call on them, but not be annoyed enough to call on them out of spite. Shelby feels their eyelids drooping, but two boys behind them start giggling for the millionth time about some stupid joke about some girl's cunt, and the violent shakes of their desk make the blissful, wonderful chance of unconsciousness fade into grudging wakefulness. Stupid, stupid. She takes another glance at the clock, and they swear that the second hand has moved backwards.

"Now, let's have another example involving _two_ variables," the teacher drones on, and his voice fades into white noise again. Shelby's attempt at paying attention has already failed, and they’re not going to try again. Instead, they concentrate on doodling shitty clouds into the margin of their suspiciously math-free notebook.

 _God_ , Shelby thinks miserably. _I wish I was out of math class. I'd give fucking anything to get out_.

The only thing keeping Shelby sane, currently, is the fact that today is Friday. But freedom is only that much more tantalizing. The second hand creeps hopefully to the next tick on the clock after what feels like a million hours, and Shelby swears that time itself is fucked all to hell, because their phone somehow glows the same digits at them. The last minute drags on some more, and the sound of the bell is the sound of sweet relief.

Shelby carelessly dumps their shit into their backpack, and shuffles with the rushing crowd towards the door. The teacher bleats reminders about homework that completely go over Shelby's head. They don't want to risk a detention, so they escape the hellhole at a brisk walk instead of the sprint they want to break into (it’s a death or dignity situation, theme). 

Except. Except there's someone on the hood of their car.

Why anyone would willingly sit on the hood of their car, Shelby has no fucking idea, because the cool hipster look from sitting on a rusty, fucked-up car is so not worth the rust stains, which -- Shelby's learned from experience -- gets on black clothes, too. But more importantly -- Shelby can't leave. Because, even though the thought is very loud and tempting in their head, they can't actually drive with a person sitting on them car. At least, not without getting pulled over. Or maybe arrested.

"Uh. That's -- that's sort of my car?" Shelby doesn't mean for it to come out as a question, but it does, anyways. The person responds with a slow smirk and sits up a little better.

"I know, Shelby," says the person. "It means you're the driver, right?" Shelby blinks in slow confusion -- what the fuck? Finally, the person hops off the lid, and Shelby is planning to leave immediately and ignore whatever the person has to say, except the person gets in the car and smiles brightly through the dirty windshield. Realization dawns late, and Shelby groans.

"Hurry up," the person's voice comes out muffled through the windshield. Shelby flips them off savagely, stranger or not.

This is probably -- no, this is _exactly_ \-- what Shelby's mom nagged them about for four million hours on not talking to strangers or letting them _in your car_. But it's Shelby's car, and the person's already in it, and Shelby just shoots it all to hell, and thinks that they’re either going to die on school grounds or get murdered by this stranger and they’ll gladly take the latter. Shelby gets in, and slams the door grumpily. The car door rattles in indignance.

"So," the person says, slouching in the seat -- way too comfortable already for some stranger in a random person's car -- and sounding like they hadn't planned what to do up to this point.

"Who the fuck are you?" snaps Shelby waspishly, because seriously, this person was a major obstacle between them and the closest coffee shop. 

"I'm Satan," says the person, perfectly lined eye not even twitching. "The Devil. Nathaniel. But you could call me Nate."

"Right," Shelby snorts. "Seriously."

"I'm dead serious," says Satan or whoever-the -fuck. Shelby rolls their eyes.

"Then seriously," Shelby says, eyeing the person up and down. He's wearing shiny black leather pants that cling to his legs like skin, and a tight leather top that doesn't quite cover his collarbones or stomach properly, where Shelby can see curling hints of ink. "Why the fuck are you dressed like a bad groupie?"

"I'm Satan," says the person. "I can look like however the fuck I want." There's this clicking noise, and suddenly Nate rematerializes in a massive gown that is made up of so much silky material that it spills out the car window in chiffon ruffles -- then he reappears in a tuxedo, hair slicked back and sprawled across Shelby's busted car seat like some sort of model from GQ -- then in an excessive pink, girlie, sparkly number that _had_ to be a size too tight that looked like it was taken from a six-year-old with an unhealthy obsession with barbie dolls -- then practically nothing, bunny ears and a bowtie, and Shelby comes back to themself when their keys rattle against the threadbare carpet. Shelby’s face floods with heat -- they know they’re bright red, but they determinedly ignore it, although they can feel Nate’s amusement flashing bright and obnoxious like a fucking lighthouse. They tear their gaze away to pick up the keys, but not before Satan sends them a suggestive wink. Shelby sighs, already sensing a pattern in his engagement.

"Okay. So." Shelby keeps their eyes trained firmly ahead while they fumbles their keys into the start. Shelby holds an irritated huff, with some effort. "You're Satan."

"Call me Nate," Nate says, crossing his arms. Amusement soaks into his voice. "Um. It's safe to look now."

Shelby glances quickly out of the side of their eye, and the car rumbles to a stop in front of the Starbucks across the street. Sure enough, Nate is dressed in the same leather get-up from when he was sprawled across the car hood before. "Seriously, why are you even dressed like that?"

Nate pouts. "I'm dressing to blend in!" says Nate indignantly, trailing behind Shelby into the shop.

“That is not -- “ Shelby cuts themself off, shakes their head, and gives up any sort of explanation as a lost cause, because, if Nate’s protesting pout is anything to be judging by, an argument over Nate’s regrettable fashion choices is more trouble than it’s worth. Shelby turns to the cashier/barista person, who stands slumped over the dusty register in a uniform that’s been washed too many times and glazed-over eyes. "Can I get a -- "

But this time, Shelby isn’t the one to cut off their sentence prematurely. “Caramel frappuccino?” says Nate, leaning across the counter and twirling his ring through pale fingers with chipped black nail polish. Shelby feels a cocktail of annoyance, disbelief, and amazement bubble out of their mouth in splutters.

"What -- how did you -- " 

"Is it not what you want?" Nate asks, smirking. Shelby shakes their head in disbelief, their emotions quickly souring to just annoyed. 

"Fine. Fine, yes, sure."

"Do you have money?"

Shelby rolls their eyes -- naturally, of course, yes, they’d still have to pay, what else did they expect? -- and fishes out a ten from their back pocket. 

"Thanks, babe," Nate says, and winks. "Go and save us a seat."

Which is pointless, Shelby notes, because the place is practically fucking empty -- there's a couple in the booth in the corner making out, and the table four seats down there's some guy staring forlornly at his coffee that is no longer steaming. Shelby opts for the table furthest away from everyone.

Shelby catches Nate winking at the cashier with that stupid all-nice-teeth smile of his, and the poor cashier returns with Shelby's drink, bright red. Nate spares the cashier a last wink and saunters back to Shelby's table.

"Seriously?" 

"What?" says Nate, the picture of perfect innocence.

"Why -- you didn’t have to -- flirting with that cashier was sort of unnecessary," Shelby splutters awkwardly -- because for some reason, they can’t talk today, and if anyone looked up ‘common sense’ in the dictionary, Nate’s picture would not be by it. Nate huffs.

"Your coffee was made with extra special love and care," says Nate indignantly. 

“Yes,” says Shelby. “Right.”

“ _Extra special love and care_ ,” emphasizes Nate indignantly, spilling into the stiff metal chair with a huff. Shelby rolls their eyes. 

"So, Satan doesn't do hanging out with random teenagers for no reason, even ones as pretty as you,” says Nate. “So I'm here to strike a deal."

"A deal?" Shelby is too confused to be annoyed at Nate’s petty flirting.

"Yes, Sheebs," Nate says, nodding emphatically. "You get seven wishes, and I get your pretty little soul." He pull out a crumpled receipt. Written on it, with lipstick that looks suspiciously like the same shade of purple that Nate is wearing, is:

_seven wishes for you_  
_your pretty little soul for me_  
_everyone wins_  
_fuck you (just kidding)_  
_lots of love, n8_

Shelby stares at the receipt -- sorry, _contract_.

"Not really one for, like. Grammar or anything, are you?"

"Unnecessary and tedious," Nate declares passionately. "Now will you sign it?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says Shelby, flustered. "I haven't agreed to anything -- this is my soul we're talking about here. I mean. It's sort of important."

"Yeah, but," Nate protests, his chair squeaking as he shuffles around. "When do you even use your soul? What do you even do with it? It's the 21st century, and like. People don't even care about their souls anymore because they don't use them -- prayer's not as intense, atheism is running rampant, Satanism is sort of becoming a thing now -- "

"But -- " Shelby protests --

“Souls aren’t even relevant anymore, but it’s always going to be my deal. Souls are always going to be my thing, even two billion some years later when people don’t even know what souls mean, because I’m Satan and it stays my job. It’s like keeping the janitor around when everyone’s got a Roomba.”

Shelby still doesn’t look totally convinced, so Nate leans over the table with puppy-dog eyes.

"Come on, Shelby," Nate whines, not even lasting a full minute of silence. "Come on come on come on -- "

"Fine!" Shelby explodes, and the cashier swings their gaze over, alarmed, the register rattling beneath their surprised hands. Shelby spares them a perfunctory apologetic glance before turning back to Nate.

"Yay," Nate squeals, and Shelby rolls their eyes.

"Only because you're being a fucking annoying twat," says Shelby, and hey, if anyone asks, some jackass probably tried to play this extensive joke on them and this stupid contract thing was the only way to get them to go away.

Nate nods seriously. "I don't care," he explains, "because I get your soul either way, Shelly-cakes, and that's my main thing." He passes over the receipt. "Sign on the dotted line."

And, for God's sake, there really _is_ a dotted line, in smeared purple lipstick on the bottom, with a desperate, lopsided _X_ hanging off the edge of it.

Shelby neatly writes their signature -- excessive curves and zig-zags -- and Nate pulls away his contract, looking satisfied.

"Now we've got to seal the deal."

"Seal the deal?" Shelby echoes.

"For the contract, Shelly-cakes." 

"Stop calling me that," Shelby grumbles.

"Alright, Sheebs," says Nate brightly, and Shelby lets out a long, resigned sigh. Shelby grudgingly sticks out their hand across the table for a stupid, old-fashioned handshake -- only to have their hand pushed aside, their coffee jostled precariously to the edge of the table, and now Nate is leaning over the table again and --

Nate's lips press against Shelby's. His lips are warm and a little wet and moving a bit, and the only reason why Shelby doesn't move away is because they’re fucking shocked, okay? Satan's giving them their first fucking kiss in a shitty coffee shop within, like, five minutes of meeting them. Jesus.

"Not quite," smirks Nate as he pulls away with an obnoxious smack of his lips, and Shelby blushes when they realizes they probably said that last bit out loud. "I'm the Devil," Nate reiterates in a careful tone of voice for what must be the billionth time. "Beezlebub. Lord of the Flies. Whatever. I kiss whoever the fuck I want to."

"Yeah. Right, okay," Shelby says, and they mean for it to come out venomously, skeptically, but it doesn't quite sound the way it's meant to. 

"Great," Nate says, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes make what he’s saying seem that much more genuine. Shelby glares. "Let me know when you want to make a wish, okay? By the way, you've got only six left."

"What?" Shelby squawks.

"The coffee counted," says Nate. "Remember, 'I wish I was out of math class. I'd do anything to get out'?" Nate repeats carefully. "Although, I'm the furthest thing from God." Shelby splutters incoherently for a second until they manage half-sentence objections:

"How did that count? Before the contract? Before I even knew you fucking _existed_?"

And Nate's response is to shrug -- _to fucking shrug_ \-- and next blink, he’s gone -- like magically gone poof, like he’s freaking Disapparated or something -- and Shelby is staring pissed off at an empty space of air.

-

When Shelby finally makes it home, after what feels like an excessively long day, they decide that Nate was an event caused by dreaming (and Shelby will wake up in math class any second, now) or caffeine deprivation -- or, if it was really real, it was a really clever prank and they 'll find footage of it on YouTube within the hour. They answers their mom's question about their day with a vague grunt before heading upstairs and climbing into bed, very, very careful not to think too much about their day.

They wake up to the smell of maple syrup and fresh batter. Shelby tumbles down the stairs, and sure enough, their mom has made a fresh stack of waffles.

"I was going to surprise you," says their mom, disappointed, and Shelby waves her unnecessary concern away.

"I'm surprised enough." Shelby pours three mugs of coffee (two for themself), and drowns their waffles in syrup and tucks in enthusiastically. 

For a while, there is no sound but that of forks clinking against cheap china and the classy slurp of coffee. Shelby clears their throat.

"I'm probably going to the mall, I'll be home before dinner," they say, clearing their plate. Shelby's mom clears her throat in that not-so-fast-young-child sort of way, and Shelby sighs, their fingers leaning sticky and slack against the wet sink countertop.

"I need you to pick stuff up at the grocery store for me."

"But -- " Shelby begins to protest, and is silenced by their mom's stern look.

"When I let you have the car -- "

" -- I agreed to run errands for you," finishes Shelby resignedly, and bites back a sarcastic add-on. Shelby's mom nods in approval.

"Good kid. It'll be fast," she says, in her that-wasn't-that-bad-was-it voice.

When Shelby comes downstairs again, dressed in soft Saturday clothes and teeth brushed vigorously, their mom leans against the wall, holding out a sheet of paper folded neatly with clean, sharp lines.

"Have fun at the mall -- but after," says them mom before she leaves for work, car keys jingling and door slamming, and Shelby groans in frustration, some of which they take out on slamming their poor car door shut. They apologizes to their car halfheartedly afterwards, and pulls out of the driveway with a scowl.

The store is mildly chilly, and they’re irritated that their flannel's got worn rips in it. Shelby tugs out a squeaky shopping cart a tad more aggressively than necessary, drops a jar of peanut butter in the cart, and checks that off their list. Next come the apples, and the eggs -- which they very nearly treat the same way as the peanut butter, out of spite, and then the gallon of milk.

Then Shelby turns around, and nearly screams -- actually, they do, but it's muffled by Nate's hand.

"Hello to you, too," says Nate, amused, and Shelby punches him in the arm. "Hey!"

"Jesus fuck," Shelby says -- and they knows their face is red, but they’re angry and flustered as fuck and caught off guard -- "what the fuck is your problem?"

"Watch your language," says Nate, still rubbing his arm. "There are little kids here!" He actually looks reproachful. Shelby pushes past him to the bread aisle.

"So, have you read the milk fic?" Nate asks, trailing behind Shelby like an irritating, overexcited shadow. "That's what caught my attention. I've memorized most of it, actually, I could recite it to you if you want -- _Ryan was kneeling in the bathtub_ \-- "

" _Fuck off_!" Shelby hisses, slamming a loaf of white bread into the cart. The loaf wobbles uncertainly, aggressively mottled by its consumer.

Nate stumbles back. "Well then."

"Look," Shelby says, more composed after a steadying breath, "I don't know what sort of weird prank you're doing, but this is really crossing a line -- "

"You signed the contract." 

"What?"

"You. Signed. The. Contract." Nate digs out the crumpled receipt from his pocket, the purple lipstick smeared to the point where it's almost illegible, but Shelby's signature is gold now, for some reason -- the thin lines, they know, were originally a blue pen dangerously low on ink. She scowls, but Nate shakes the receipt for emphasis. "You haven't made your second wish, yet, you know."

Shelby rattles the cart, _squeak squeak squeak_ , quickly to the checkout line. Nate loiters by the chocolate bars for a minute, before jogging to catch up to Shelby, muttering under their breath. Their cashier looks mildly harassed.

Handing over the money feels like relief. The crinkle of the bags are refreshing breaths of air and a step away from Nate. Nate waves a half-eaten bar of chocolate.

"Want a bite, Sheebs?" says Nate through a mouthful of chocolate, still managing a smirk even though his lips are covered in smeared chocolate.

"Hey," says the cashier, "that kid didn't pay for that." Nate smiles docilely before turning and sprinting, his footsteps heavy against dirty tile. A tall, wide set man lumbers over in a bright-red vest, a tag on his pocket reading "manager" in big, capital letters.

"Hey, son," says the man, frowning. "You need to get your friend back to pay for that."

Shelby feels teenage vibes shivering through their legs, and next thing they know, They’re sprinting through the badly-maintained sliding doors, too, and -- and fuck Nate, seriously. He's leaning on Shelby's car again, smirking, still eating his stolen chocolate bar. 

Shelby turns around. The manager is talking to a similarly tall police officer who must eat, drink, breathe -- fuck, swim in steroids, and Shelby's breath comes out in a hiss of slurred-together swears.

"Get in, get in, get in," Shelby very nearly screams at Nate, and Shelby peels out of them parking spot, them tires squealing in protest.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Shelby mutters half-intelligibly -- to their car for how badly they’ve been treating it the last few days, to themself for putting up with Nate, to the world for the existence of this fucking situation, they have no fucking idea. Sirens wail behind them, and their foot jerks on the gas as they scream, "Shit!"

"You know what to do," Nate says, way too relaxed, slouched over the busted-up car seat. 

A second set of sirens join the first, and Shelby slams the steering wheel in frustration. Seriously, all of this over a one-dollar chocolate bar? _Seriously?_

"Fine!" Shelby screams. "Fine! I wish I could see all the places I want to go to -- like London, Chicago, and all that shit!"

By the third set of sirens, Shelby can feel them pulse in their fucking head.

"Okay," Nate says finally, and Shelby is caught between a deep desire to kiss him and kick him in the fucking stomach.

But before they can do either, they’re falling through dark, dark, dark, and swearing at the top of their lungs.

Until their feet slam into polyester carpet, and their knees buckle a little.

Shelby can feel stiff makeup stretching across their eyelids every time they blink -- they’re in heels, a tight skirt, and they’re wearing a weird, scratchy, gaudy shirt, and -- oh my fucking god, is that a _beret_? What the fuck has Nate done? Shelby turns around, and they’re in a shitty, tiny bathroom, with a weird toilet and a small counter with a shallow dip and a drain that they supposes passes as a sink. Then they sees themself in the mirror and -- for fuck's sake. They’re a fucking _flight attendant_.

Shelby jumps when someone slams on the door twice -- _bang_ , rattle, _bang_ , rattle. 

"Shelby, honey," a male voice says sleazily between obnoxious smacks of gum, "you've been taking _forever_ in there, I can't cover for you forever."

"Another minute," Shelby responds, trying hard to keep the panicked desperation out of their voice. They take a shaky, calming breath, and struggles to slide open the door. Finally, with a couple of firm jerks on the handle, Shelby emerges with a false, wide smile.

"Twenty minutes until we arrive in Chicago," says a muffled voice over the PA, and okay, this is so not what Shelby asked for. Shelby curses under their breath.

"Are you on your period, sweetheart?" says the same man -- his nametag says "Gabe." The peppermint on his breath is sickening, especially at this close of a vicinity, and he smacks on it impossibly louder. Shelby refrains, with some difficulty, from glaring.

"No," says Shelby flatly.

"Oh, sweetie, you know I'm just joking," and Shelby freezes and internally screams when Gabe smacks a wet kiss on their cheek, the scratch of stubble following afterwards. He splutters a little. "You taste like makeup," he complains, and it's all Shelby can do to hang on to that little bit satisfaction and pray that it lasts them through this entire fucking nightmare.

"Sorry," says Shelby insincerely. "Excuse me." Shelby pushes past Gabe and clings onto the shiny handle of a cart, which they suppose they’re meant to do, and pushes it out, not even a wobble in their step.

"Orange juice or coffee?" they ask halfheartedly to a pudgy man in suit with a tie that looks like it's been too tightly put on. They precariously slosh hot coffee into a small mug and passes it over. He looks affronted, but they spare him a big, fake smile before moving on to a mother wrestling her child into her seat belt. 

"Hello," Shelby says. "Orange juice or coffee? Or milk?" Shelby adds on, glancing at the squirming child. Shelby's ignored, so they move on.

"Orange juice or coff -- " and Shelby abruptly cuts themself off, because Nate is sprawled lazily in the next seat. Nate's wearing something that Shelby supposes is meant to pass as business attire-- he’s wearing slacks that cling to Nate's legs and accentuates his fantastic thighs more than the leather pants did, believe it or not. He's still hanging onto the leather theme -- Shelby didn't even know leather blazers existed until now -- and he’s wearing a black button-up a size too tight, with one button too many undone, and a silky black tie loosely done around his neck.

"Hey, Sheebs," says Nate, nodding that fly white boy tilt in greeting, and Shelby scowls at him.

"What the f -- " Shelby cuts themself off again and tries to force their grimace into a smile. Nate smirks and swirls his empty wineglass in the air, clean airplane sounds filling the air while Nate stares at Shelby. 

"Actually, can I have another one of these?" Nate says finally, and waves his empty plastic wineglass to punctuate his question.

"Do you mind reminding me what it was?" asks Shelby in a tone that nears politeness through clenched teeth.

"I don't know," says Nate. "Something alcoholic."

Shelby grabs red wine and sloshes it into the glass, and splashes a little of it into Nate’s lap, which is only partly by accident. Nate grins, anyways.

"Thanks, babe."

Shelby frowns at him before moving on. The plane suddenly shakes.

"We are experiencing some technical difficulties," says the tired monotone voice over the PA. "Please remain in your seats, and put your seat belts on. Thank you."

The plane shudders again, and Shelby teeters for the first time in their high, high heels. There's another ding over the PA.

"We have run out of fuel, and are preparing for an emergency landing. Please, get into emergency positions -- "

And everyone on the plane breaks out into panicked chatter, and Shelby swears a long string of every bad word in their vocabulary as they feel the plane tip nose-forward. The cart begins to roll away from them as they crouch, two hands gripping the seats on either side of them for dear life. Gabe reappears, dragging them into the next set of bathrooms to brace.

"Fuck, you've got to be kidding me," and Shelby isn't quite sure if they’re more annoyed at how botched this plane trip has gotten, or the fact that Gabe the fucking douche bag has made a reappearance.

The plane tips forward so suddenly that Shelby and Gabe slam into the plastic of the bathroom doors with a double thud of bodies, and Shelby is fervently glad that the doors are so difficult to slide open. The plane actually makes the whistling going-down noise from cartoons -- they're going down that fucking fast. Passengers are screaming and doubled over. Shelby sees flashes and flickers of red-orange outside the window, outstanding against the blaring white -- and, oh my fucking god -- _the plane is on fire_.

This is when Shelby starts screaming.

" _Nate! Nate!_ "

"What the fuck," says Gabe, slightly breathless. Shelby ignores him.

" _Nate! Nate, you fucker! Nate!_ " screeches Shelby passionately.

"Who the fuck is Nate?" asks Gabe, his mouth set in a hard line, and Shelby's relieved the gum is gone -- whether it's been spit out or accidentally swallowed or in their fucking hair, they do not give a damn, and thanks whatever deity off the top of their head for small blessings.

Nate appears with a pop, followed quickly by Gabe's gasp, and sounds are suddenly muffled because, fuck, Shelby's ears are popping so bad that it feels like their brains have melted and turned to slosh leaking out of their ears. They shriek something at the top of their lungs -- probably, they’re betting, like _GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE_. Nate slams into the bathroom door next to Shelby, the door rattling, and his leather blazer squeaks.

"WHAT?" Nate bellows.

"OUT!" screams Shelby. "GET -- ME -- OUT -- "

And as suddenly as they landed in the plane as a flight attendant, Shelby lands in their car in their driveway as themself. They breathe out a long sigh of relief and rubs at their ears.

"Seriously, fuck you," snaps Shelby, and Nate pouts.

"What did I do?" protests Nate.

"You know as well as fuck that _that_ was not what I meant by wanting to go to Chicago," snarls Shelby. 

"It's not my fault you weren't specific!"

"Who the hell would want to visit Chicago in a blaze of fiery human mush?" Shelby says in a near-screech, their voice cracking into scratchy frustration. "Oh my god."

"What?" says Nate, shocked by whatever new development, and he yelps when Shelby punches his arm with passion.

"You made me forget the groceries, you jackass!" Shelby screeches, and Nate pouts and opens his mouth to protest, but --

"Shelby, is that you?" Shelby's mom leans out of the doorway, frowning. "Who are you talking to?" Shelby glances to them passenger seat, and no one is there. Shelby clamors out of the car and runs their hand through their hair.

"Uh, I was on the phone," Shelby makes up hurriedly.

Shelby's mom cocks an eyebrow. "Well, thank you for getting the groceries. Your friend Nate called? He said you were planning to meet them at the mall later. He seems nice, maybe you should have him over for dinner sometime."

Shelby answers with a noncommittal grunt, and seriously considers not going to the mall at all out of spite. But going to the mall was the plan in the first place, so Shelby shoves all of their annoyance and need to punch Nate in the face to the back of their head, and drives to the mall, hitting only green lights -- maybe Nate feels bad. 

Nate's eyebrows raise when Shelby, looking mildly grumpy, walks over to his table in front of Starbucks.

"You came."

"Yeah, I came," sighs Shelby. "I was going to come, anyways."

Nate smiles. "I got you a drink."

"Thanks," says Shelby, accepting the drink hesitantly, condensation already dripping down the sides. "And thanks for the whole grocery thing."

"Consider it a freebie, Sheebs," says Nate brightly, bouncing out of his seat. He's wearing tight leather hotpants, white button-up with the buttons undone almost far too low, and a leather tie. (At this point, Shelby's accepted that Nate will probably have anything imaginable in leather -- even socks, if he feeld like it, which sounds really gross, but.)

"I wanted to go to the record and book store," says Shelby, and Nate bounces behind them into the smooth _swoosh_ of the sliding doors. Nate slows down by a pair of incredibly unattractive (and expensive) leather ankle boots, shiny and Satan-tempting through clean, gleaming glass, and Shelby grabs Nate's wrist and pulls him along.

"We're not stealing those," Shelby says flatly, and Nate whines the rest of the way.

They spend half an hour going through records and books. Shelby goes over budget and swears -- Nate spreads all the books over the floor, and they both lay on clean white tile, leaning over the books.

Nate, eyebrow cocked, picks a book up, which is red and worn. "Winnie the Pooh? Seriously?"

"Winnie the Pooh is a great book," protests Shelby. "It revolutionized children's books and it was a great reestablishment of individualistic morals -- "

"You're adorable when you get all defensive and passionate," says Nate with a genuine smile. Shelby flushes furiously.

"Yeah, well -- " 

But Nate cuts Shelby off by pressing his lips to theirs, and this time -- well, this time, Shelby lets him. His lips are soft and warm, and the kiss is actually sort of pleasant. Nate pulls away, looking extremely pleased.

"We'll take all these things," says Nate to the cashier -- who was watching them kiss, apparently -- waving vaguely at all the shit they 've managed to spread across the floor. 

"Uh, okay -- "

"Nate," Shelby hisses, "I didn't bring enough money for all of this -- " But Nate is digging out a wallet from the back pocket of his incredibly tight jeans, how he managed to fit it in there, Shelby has no fucking idea. Nate waves Shelby off.

"Just because I'm Satan doesn't mean I never carry around cash," Nate says, wriggling his bent, creased wallet, which is also, unsurprisingly, leather. 

"Thanks," Shelby says sheepishly.

After a rather awful day, spending time with Nate at the mall was a -- surprisingly -- nice end to it.

-

TBC af!!!


End file.
